Beauty

Ever get to that age when those lines you’ve been palming off as ol’ laughter lines for the last 3 years, have now actually grown up, got life insurance and put a deposit down for a mortgage… on your face. And they’re not paying it off any day soon either, ‘cos those wrinkles are first time buyers don’tcha know. They’re not just there when you’re giggling away anymore. Oh no, they’re out in full force whether you’re rofling all over your floordrobe or weeping over Rio Ferdinand plaiting his daughter’s hair and using your floury tortilla wrap to shield your ugly crying face (it was all TOO much for some of us ok!?).

A blow dry is never just a blow dry is it? It’s so much more than just going to get your hair done. It’s a chance to lose yourself in this month’s mags looking at bags you can’t afford and sip on fine ass frothy coffee.

I don’t do a lot with my hair. In fact I don’t do anything to it. It’s quite long and annoying so I tend to count washing it as making an effort these days – and drying it definitely doesn’t involve sectioning and forming loose ringlets with a fancy brush. Cba with all of that. My arms are too weak. Basically, I’m the female equivalent of Gary Barlow – he didn’t wash his hair for 14 years and now, based on that alone, he’s my hero.

As beauty products go, primer is one thing I really cba with. I know, I know what kind of beauty blogger does that make me ay? I am aware that using one can make your foundation go from zero to hero, but I really haven’t got the patience to sit around and wait for it to sink into my pores. Which brings me onto another bugbear of mine – why does it leave grey bitty blobs on your skin? Like the leftover pieces of a pencil rubber. It happens to me a lot and I end up having to redo my whole base, hence why me and primer haven’t really been soul mates before now.

This was my first Lush Cosmetics treatment so I didn’t really know what to expect. Obviously it was gonna smell good enough to eat, that much I did know…

I went to the Lush Spa at the Oxford Street location, just a 5 minute walk from the tube. Perfecto! No one wants to turn up for a hot bath and a massage with a sweaty upper lip now do they? That said, walking down Oxford Street for 5 minutes is a sweat fest enough – they need to bring in a fast and slow lane for pedestrians, seriously.

Complete with a butler sink, a huge wooden dining table fit for a king and atmospheric dim lighting, the olde-worlde decor will make you want to take permanent residence at this place. 10o03o4050 photos later and a whole lot of slurping on cucumber water… it was officially BATH TIME.

I can’t imagine leaving the house without putting on some perfume. Not because I can’t appreciate my own natural goddess-like scent, ermmm, but because for me, it’s literally the same as putting on shoes. It’s the last thing I do before I shut the door and begin my day. Sure, I’ll admit that sometimes I can over do it and choke everyone to death on the commute but at least the train smells less like fecal matter and coffee breath. See, I’m just a girl, spritzing herself with perfume she can’t afford to make Southern Rail smell better. Good. Deed. Or. What.